


Snow Falls in Other Universes Too

by nhixxie



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: College!AU, M/M, assassins!au, royalty!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhixxie/pseuds/nhixxie
Summary: “Merry Christmas, Magnus.” A shadow hunter says to a warlock.(A hockey player says to a physics major. A prince says to a servant. An assassin says to another assassin.)Alec feels a smile against his shirt. “Merry Christmas, Alexander.”OR, Magnus and Alec experience Christmas through three different universes.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 22
Kudos: 176
Collections: The Malec Secret Santa - Edition 2019





	Snow Falls in Other Universes Too

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for darque-essence for Malec Secret Santa 2019! Hope this is okay as I've only had about three days to write it! Happy Holidays! 
> 
> For the last part of this fic, there is a reference to a song playing in the background. If you are curious, the song is "It's Been a Long, Long Time" by Kitty Kallen and I recommend listening to it while reading that specific part.
> 
> *EDIT: I also was able to make a little fic trailer to go with this! The song used is the same song by Kitty Kallen.
> 
> I'm @nhixxie on twitter and follow #nhixxiefic as well!

“This is _embarrassing_.” Magnus groans, back plastered onto the rough ice.

If not for the utter state of disgrace he is in, Magnus would have appreciated the way the unusually blue sky is domed over him, only thin wisps of clouds tufted across the sky. His breaths materialize into puffs of condensation above him.

Alec looms into view, palms planted on his knees, trying to stifle a laugh.

“You’re doing fine.” He says, or tries to say nonchalantly, and _of course_ he would say that, being the ever-so-charming captain of the varsity hockey team. 

Aren’t jocks supposed to be dicks? Magnus blearily remembers one of his engineering friends lamenting on this fact after a pretty hopeless one-night stand with a guy from the football team. Also, she kicked the door right off of her mini-fridge in her ‘sorrow’. 

“Alexander, the only other person on this frozen river who’s on her butt is that five-year-old.” Magnus says bleakly, refusing to move, “I’m not doing fine.”

Alec laughs, eyes crinkling, and Magnus watches the scene unfold before him like a flower in bloom. He is beautiful, Magnus thinks again, as if the thought hasn’t been thought before, like it’s freshy laid snow on the cold earth. Hair stuffed under a beanie, a scarf wound around his neck and tucked inside his winter jacket. Lips glistening with vaseline. He squats right next to Magnus’ sprawled form with no problem with balance at all. He ends up sitting right down on the ice, his knees pressed against Magnus’ side.

“You said you wanted to learn.” He chides, smiling, “It’s not going to be Michelle Kwan right off the bat.”

Magnus furrows his brow. “You know Michelle Kwan?”

“Of course I know Michelle Kwan.” Alec laughs. “I’m a hockey player, not an idiot.”

Magnus cranes his neck sideways to look at him part innocently, part teasingly. “You mean they’re not one and the same?”

Alec looks at him as if to say _oh really_ , a laugh pinned against the roof of his mouth. “That’s rich coming from someone who just landed on his ass and refuses to get up.”

Magnus almost giggles, as if to say _okay, fair point_. Alec’s fast wit still feels like a sudden whiplash to him. He always has an amusing comeback just simmering beneath his tongue, ready to be used when the time arises. His words are just as fast as the way he carves out ice on the rink. Magnus still remembers the first time he’s ever seen Alec skate.

It’s the sound that draws Magnus in first. The smooth scratch of blades against freshly zambonied ice is something like music to the ears. It makes Magnus quietly descend down the stairs and right at rink side, elbows propped against the barrier, lost eyes taking in the fast yet graceful body driving puck after puck after puck into the net—high, low, stick side, glove side, right between the pads of an imaginary goal tender. 

It’s only when Alec stops right in front of Magnus, snow spraying in his wake, that he actually feels himself blink. He smiles knowingly. _Enjoying the show, are we?_

Magnus laughs sheepishly, and decides not to mince words. _Yes. You’re mesmerizing._ He holds out a hand. _I’m Magnus Bane. Professor Penhallow said you’re willing to participate in an Applied Physics study?_

 _Alec Lightwood, and yeah, definitely_ , Alec says, slipping a glove off, hurriedly wiping his hand clean, and shaking Magnus’, _I knew you were coming today, and I did see you in the corner of my eye, just didn’t expect_ —Alec falters, and Magnus raises his brow part curiously, part knowingly, like he’s expected the comment. Jocks are jocks, right? And today is an eyeliner day.

 _You can finish that sentence,_ Magnus says, smiling, _whatever it is, I’m sure I have thick enough skin for it._

Alec looks back at him, confused. _I was just going to say I didn’t expect an applied physics major to look like he can bench press more than I can._

Magnus blinks, takes the words, and parses through it thoroughly; Alec might have admitted to him in his own jock way that he’s hot. Maybe Magnus himself as a bit of a preconceived notion about athletes. What an unusual turn of events. 

_I’ll make sure to wear my reading glasses next time_. Magnus teases with a smirk, and to which, Alec snickers.

_You can borrow mine._

“Magnus.” Alec calls, laughter in his voice, and Magnus blinks. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “You have to get up.”

Oh yes, he’s on his first date with the most beautiful man he knows while at the same time daydreaming about the same beautiful man. That doesn’t make sense and Magnus thinks he may be concussed. 

“How much mulled wine did you have?”

Oh, and that too.

“One,” Magnus says slowly, and Alec raises a fine brow at him, and it’s the most beautiful thing Magnus has ever drunkenly (ish) seen, “Plus four..?” he sighs, rubbing his belly. “It was so good and warm.”

Alec snickers, palm pressing against his eyes like he can’t believe the sneakiness Magnus would have employed to down four more cups of mulled wine behind his back. “Oh god. You’re drunk.”

Magnus corrects him from below, a finger swaying in the air. “No, just giddy. Also I’m just going say it now, because I feel really brave for some reason,” Magnus says aloud, so loud that a couple of skaters turn to look at their direction, “And I hope you’re ready.”

Alec gives him a small grin, cheeks rosy. “Hit me.”

“God, I really like you!” Magnus exclaims, and Alec laughs, and it’s like music in the air.

Alec shakes his head. “I definitely didn’t expect to be saying this right here right now, but,” he presses his lips together into a soft smile, “I really like you too.”

“ _Nice_.” Magnus hisses victoriously, pumping a fist into the air, and looks at Alec pleadingly. “Celebratory mulled wine?”

Alec loses it _completely_.

When he gathers himself from the side-splitting laugh he endures, he ends up hauling Magnus onto his back and skating his way back to the start of the trail. Between Magnus giggling into his neck and his chest pressed perfectly against his back to a point of feeling the rhythm each other’s hearts, Alec doesn’t think there’s anything Christmas could bring that would make him feel as warm as he’s feeling right now. 

“You could at least feign interest.” 

The whisper comes in a tone of utmost indignation, huffed through a short exhale. Alexander does everything in his power to refrain himself from rolling his eyes. He takes a breath in and out instead. When he speaks, his voice is controlled.

“Forgive me, mother.” He says, addressing the Lightwood matriarch with a small nod, “The hunt had been long. I’m quite tired, I’m afraid.”

Maryse makes a distinct sound at the excuse. “You could at least use a better lie.”

“Mother’s right, Alexander.” Isabelle nonchalantly says from where she’s standing next to him, on the balcony overlooking the orchestration of noblemen and noblewomen moving across the dancefloor, “You need not lie for me. I rode my horse too far yet again, and you had to search for me through the early evening.”

Maryse looks positively mortified, eyes widened in horror at the revelation made before her. “Isabelle, you age me beyond my years with every passing day.”

Alexander and Isabelle exchange a small look across their shared space, biting down onto their lips in hope of pinning down the laugh that threatens to escape it.

The queen sighs, fingers fluttering onto her forehead. “The heavens may have blessed me beautiful, intelligent children, but they’ve cursed me with stubborn ones as well.” She throws both of them a knowing look. “One wonders which would prevail, a boulder or your two hard heads.”

“Our two hard heads, of course.” Isabelle whispers mischievously to her brother, “Three if you count the one always at attention when a certain _someone_ ’s around.” It’s all Alexander needs to choke on his own saliva right then and there. 

Prince of Alicante, the golden archer, next in line for the throne, Alexander Lightwood, choking on his own spit.

 _Oh, heavens, help me_ , the queen bemoans as she makes her way to the gold-gilded chair that stands behind them. A hand maiden hands her a goblet of water to sip upon, and it makes Alexander and Isabelle want to laugh all the more. 

Alexander breathes, settled now, and he clasps both hands behind him, stretching the hefty fabric of his white tailored jacket across his chest. He gazes upon their subjects below, in all sorts of merriment as the Christmas ball continues into the night. The musicians play their instruments that carries music through out the castle, in loud pompous beats within the royal ballroom, and in softer waves through the towering ceilings and empty, ornate hallways. Everybody looks their best, and everybody is happy. He could not ask for more than that from the holidays. 

“You need not lie for me.” Alexander mutters under his breath after a moment to himself.

Isabelle smiles softly, eyes at the dancing below. “I agree. I did not need to.” She says, “But I wanted to.”

Alexander looks down onto his feet momentarily. “I have no secrets to keep.”

“Who says you are?” Isabelle asks, on her red lips a teasing smile.

Alexander doesn’t stifle himself this time and rolls his eyes. “You sound like someone who’s happened upon fresh gossip.”

Isabelle chuckles under her breath. “No gossip here, brother. Just observations.”

Alexander raises a brow. “And what might those be?” 

Isabelle laughs a second time. “Alexander. If were to I list them all, we will be here until the clock strikes twelve.”

From the corner of their eyes, the queen is motioning to the herald and he steps forward, sounding the trumpet to garner everybody’s attention. All movements cease from below, and the herald announces the start to the presentation of princesses for Alexander’s consideration for the first royal dance—a tradition that stems so very deep into royal history. He breathes out, brow furrowed, and takes one step towards the stair case when Isabelle holds her hand out.

“I would like to be the one to do the royal dance this year, mother.” She says firmly, and the queen waves a hand dismissively.

“No. Alexander will do it.”

“Is because I’m a woman?” Isabelle challenges, and Alexander looks at her, brow raised.

Maryse rolls her eyes—ah yes, that’s where they both get it from. “Isabelle, the eldest child always does the first royal dance. It’s tradition.”

 _Damn it_ is visible on Isabelle’s face. Alexander doesn’t know exactly what his sister has planned, but she has quite a fair bit of fight left in her. “The same way a queen cannot govern this kingdom without a king?” she says, and by the way Maryse’s face shifts, she knows she’s hit at something substantial.

Isabelle delivers the final blow. “And yet, here we are. A queen governing a kingdom just fine by her own.” She says, “Mother, Lightwoods spit at tradition and accept the consequences.”

Alexander fights down a smile. Sweet Isabelle, princess of Alicante, master tactician. Maryse must be regretting ever putting her through military training with him. 

Maryse breathes out a small sigh— _these children will be the death of me_ —before turning to the herald and telling him to call forth the princes instead. 

Isabelle turns to Alexander, finally. “He’s where he usually is. The eve of Christmas is not for dancing with people you don’t like.”

Alexander says stiffly, “I like my people.”

“You don’t love them, though.” Isabelle looks at him knowingly. “Go.”

Alexander presses his lips together, a thought tumbling precariously within his mind, torn again between nagging responsibility and softly beckoning desire. But he remembers a laugh so musical it fills him to the brim, and eyes so wise it seems to hold the answers to every question he’s ever asked. It’s what makes him look at Isabelle with gentle gratitude, and it’s what makes him turn around and walk away even before his mother could say anything. 

“She is a great beauty.”

Alexander frowns at his hands, a gentle breeze fluttering his cloak about. The sunlight beams down upon both of them softly, like a gentle greeting, and it makes the gold of his tunic glisten. “That I’m not contesting.” 

His eyes leave the lines of his palms and settles on the sun-kissed back of his most trusted friend. The man rakes his fingers through the soil, airing it out for planting new seedlings. Magnus has always been of the land. From the first moment they have met, he has always smelled like freshly watered earth, like petrichor in the morning. 

The same man looks away from his task and peers up at him. “Then what are you contesting?”

Alexander shrugs, lips pressed together. “That I don’t feel any affection for her?” he says, “That I don’t want to marry her?”

Magnus chortles, and Alexander frowns. “Alexander, it is but a meeting. Not a betrothal.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “You say that as if you’ve mastered the inner workings of political diplomacy.”

“I say it because I know the queen.” Magnus says, rising to his feet, hands brushing soil from his trousers, “I know your mother. I know how though she wears a stern mask, she bears a soft heart.”

Magnus presses a hand against Alexander’s arms, and the touch is warm and reassuring. “She will not let her son suffer for her own betterment. Or the betterment of the kingdom.”

Alexander watches as Magnus trudges towards a basket sitting on the ground, gathers a bouquet of picked flowers from this morning, all the stems wound with a brown string. “Anthurium for hospitality, gentian for gratitude, amaryllis for splendid beauty, and alstroemeria for friendship.” He presses the flowers into Alexander’s hands, “For the princess.”

“Attend today’s meeting.” Magnus says, smile soft, “Princess Lydia deserves your respect, if not your affection. And whoever holds your affection, I’m sure she will respect in return.”

Alexander pins his lip between his teeth, a thought within his mind. “Whoever holds my affection, will you respect this person too?”

There’s a glaze of something in Magnus’ eyes, maybe wistfulness, but too slight for Alexander to be sure.

“Whoever you choose to love, Alexander,” Magnus says gently, “I will love as well. As my own kin, as my own friend.” He smiles yet again, and the hand on Alexander’s arm falls away as he settles back onto the earth. He takes a rose seedling and begins his work of planting them into the soil. 

Alexander smiles to himself as he walks away, an arm cradling a bouquet of flowers, the other hand brushing the fully bloomed petals of hundreds of red roses that surround them both. 

“He is lucky.”

Alexander quickly turns from the window and hides his surprise beneath a mask of nonchalance. The royal dining room has been emptied out, and both royal families have moved to the great chamber for tea. The gentle waterfall tune of a harp being played hangs in the air. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, princess.”

Lydia chuckles, brightly painted lips curled into a smile. “No need for falsities. If our kingdoms are to work together, I wish for us to be good enough friends to admit when one has discovered a grain of truth about the other.”

Alexander furrows his brow, unamused. “And this is what you think. That you’ve discovered a grain of truth about me.”

“I pass no judgement.” Lydia answers, her words bearing a tone of truth, “I see love for what it is. Simple. True. Shared between people.”

“I am impressed by your forward thinking, your highness,” Alexander says, frowning, “But I fear you are misdirected.”

Lydia peers through the window herself and finds the figure of a man working under the sun, surrounded by the roses he himself have planted. “I assume it is his expertise that is behind the beautiful flowers you’ve presented me with?”

She looks back at Alexander, smiling gratefully. “Please extend my warmest gratitude.”

Alexander blinks, taken aback by the genuine words. “I will.”

She gazes at him, really looks, as if within her ribcage a grain of truth pleads to be let out. “Alexander.” She says, and the softness in her voice is enough to for him to allow the brazen use of his name, “Bravery isn’t simply wielding a sword in battle. Being who we truly are as we live our lives with every passing day,”

“That is bravery too.”

Lydia presses her hand against his momentarily, a sympathetic smile on her mouth, before she turns and walks away. By the door her hand maiden awaits, the bright red of her curled hair visible from far away, and Alexander watches in muted awe as Lydia takes the other’s hand in hers.

“I wonder if I’d ever see you without your hands combed through the earth.”

Alexander feels the man smile even before he turns to look at him. The moon casts its light upon them both, as if it knows all the lamps in the castle is being used to light the Christmas ball that continues on in the periphery.

“Don’t hold your breath.” Magnus says, a smiling mouth formed around gentle words, “I came to you with dirt in my hands, I will leave you the same way.”

Alexander remembers the moment like it was a memory encased in glass. The royal gardeners have been dealing with what they thought were rabbits pulling root crops from their vegetable garden, until one day, they give chase to something definitely much bigger. They pull a child from beneath a berry bush, thin, quivering, and frightened beyond measure. They would have thrown the child into the dungeons if not for a ten-year-old Alexander barking orders like he’s already bestowed the throne. When Alexander takes the hand of the child to pull him up to his feet, earth is smudged across his face, soil underneath his fingernails. They’ve grown up together, Alexander as the prince of Alicante, and Magnus taken in as a servant boy by a sympathetic queen, and no matter what, no matter when, earth lives in Magnus.

Some things never change. 

“Wait,” Alexander says, confused, as if the words have settled in his mind quite late, “Leave?”

Magnus rises, hands passing against the sides of his pants as he usually does. He looks at Alexander, eyes soft. “I have asked the queen if I could serve the Aldertrees instead.” He says, and the words are muffled against the rising panic within Alexander’s head, “And she graciously said yes.”

Alexander feels fear and sorrow and anger swirl like a hurricane within his chest. “Why?”

Magnus smiles small. “Change of scenery, my prince.”

“Speak true.” Alexander grits, “And if not the truth, at the very least don’t lie.”

“If I do,” Magnus says, slowly, softly, words losing its honorifics, and the familiarity of it feels at the very least comforting, “If I tell you my truth, what good is it?”

“Tell me.” Alexander says under his breath, brow furrowed.

Magnus continues like he hasn’t heard the request. “What good is baring one’s heart if it is to be ripped out of the body in the end?”

Alexander sighs, hand to the forehead, frustrated. “Magnus, tell me.”

“I promised,” Magnus says, hand planted against Alexander’s heart, voice shaky, “I promised that I would love who you love, and I don’t think I can.” 

Alexander casts him a look of confusion, his words telling of the panic in his chest, “What has brought this about, what did you see—” 

“Nothing,” Magnus presses, eyes glassy, “Just—a seedling of truth. One that has been growing within me for a long time, one that I know will bear no fruit.” He pats his palm against Alexander’s heart, as if in goodbye, “I leave tonight, with the Aldertrees’ carriage—” 

“I love you.” Alexander says, cutting down Magnus doubt cleanly like a sword to a body, “And by I love you I mean I’ve thought about every good thing that has happened to me and the thoughts that my mind bring forward is you.”

“By I love you I mean I’ve thought about every consequence that could come my way by loving you and I’ve decided I would accept it if you would.”

“And by I love you I mean,” Alexander finds himself breathing heavy, like he’s run a marathon, heart galloping away, “Stay.”

“Just—” Alexander whispers, softly now, a solemn request, “Stay, Magnus.”

Magnus breathes, “I love you too, Alexander.” He whispers, “Since the day you pulled me from the earth. Until I take my last breath and I return to the dirt I came from. Even after that, I’d love you.”

Magnus shakes his head. “But I can’t promise you I’d let you give up your crown for someone like me.” He says, throat hoarse, “I can’t promise you I’d let Alicante lose the kindest king they would ever have.”

Magnus feels Alexander’s breath against his skin.

“But I promise to stay.”

Alexander nods, “Alright.”

Magnus chuckles. “Alright?”

“Yes, alright.” Alexander laughs gently, “May I?”

The question comes out of him as if he does not have the crest of the royal family stitched into his destiny, as if he is not the general of Alicante’s armies, as if he does not have a throne awaiting his ascension. Before Magnus, he is who is in the barest sense—a simple man.

Magnus smiles. “You may.”

They kiss, softly but surely, under a bright moon, amongst flowers planted by Magnus’ hands himself, the clock bells chiming midnight. They welcome Christmas day with eyes fluttered close and the smell of lush earth. 

“Mother _fucker_ —” Alec grits as another bullet whizzes past, this time so dangerously close to his head that it actually makes him jump in surprise, “He’s armed!”

Alec breathes out steadily and peeks minutely past the overturned table, momentarily catching sight of his target’s head flitting into view and returning fire expertly, a bullet boring a hole in the wall where his target once was.

“You were supposed to know that he has a fucking M1911 strapped under his desk!” Alec growls as he feels pieces of wood splintering from his make-shift shield.

Raj’s voice filters through his ear piece and the son of a bitch dares sound bored. _This is America, everyone has an M1911._

Alec presses himself closer to the ground, Beretta M9 held close as he waits for an opportune moment to return fire. “He’s a good shot,” he snarls, before lifting himself off and firing a couple of rounds of his own, “Any explanations for that, asshole?”

_Shooting range?_

“Idiot.” He hisses, before abandoning the thoroughly shot at table and ducking behind a wall. There is a momentary lull, a silence that fills the penthouse, the tinkling of the barely-holding crystal chandelier the only sound Alec could appreciate. 

_You have a clear exit through a staircase by the kitchen. Back up’s ready—_

“No.” Alec mutters, “I’ll finish—” 

An unbearable screech rips through his ears and pulses into Alec’s brain as he curls in pain, tearing the ear piece off and before he could even attempt to clear his head, a shoulder digs deeply into his abdomen, knocking the breath out of his lungs and bodying him onto the floor.

They both hit marble with a dull thud that rattles both their bodies and Alec takes advantage of his assailant’s head pinned beneath him. Adrenalin surges through his bloodstream as he drops an elbow right onto the back of his assailant, hitting a wall of clenched muscle. The man buckles with a breathless groan but it soon passes as he quickly flips onto his back and in one smooth maneuver presses himself against Alec from the rear, locks an arm across his neck and _squeezes._

A grunt pulses into Alec’s ears, “Stay down, darling.”

Alec gasps for air, eyes squeezed shut as he feels the heavy pressure bruise his trachea, but despite the oxygen deprivation, he sputters indignantly at the patronizing nickname. _Fucker_. He reverts back to basic training and pushes an elbow into one of the legs pinned around his waist, his other hand pulling the opposite direction in an attempt to at the very least bend the tibia just enough to—

A pained yell bursts by the side of his head and he reaches back and punches at the first thing he can reach, and god bless for long limbs because he hits a cheek squarely as if he has been aiming for something in the first place. Arms finally give way around his neck and he scrambles out of the loosened hold. He gets on his feet and throws his entire body into another downward blow against a finely chiselled jaw. It jars his opponent just enough for Alec to get his own arms around the other’s neck in a tight rear chokehold of his own, and unlike his opponent, he will not make the mistake of not using it the fullest extent. He twists both legs over the assailant’s, pinning them in place, and with his arms locked tight he rocks onto his back, putting his entire weight onto the hold. It doesn’t take long for the thrashing to stop. 

Alec pants, gives it a few seconds more, and lets go before his assailant expires fully. He has some questions he wants answered, and a dead hostage is a useless hostage. He hauls himself up, watches carefully as the unconscious man before him lays motionless on the floor, and with one massive push he flips him onto his chest. He takes zip ties from the inside of his jacket pocket and binds the other’s wrist with enough ties to ground a bigger beast down. 

He wipes blood from his brow, a cut he doesn’t even know he got somewhere during the entire ruckus. He flips the man again, and Alec takes a good look at his face.

 _Well, fuck_ , he thinks to himself, as if he hasn’t seen the photos, as if the real deal, all bloodied up and hair loose around the face, is infinitely better, _he’s hot._

His ear piece crackles on the floor completely destroyed, as if to agree. 

“I could get used to waking up to a sight like this.”

Alec rolls his eyes, slips his shirt back on, and shoots right at a spot dangerously close to the man’s now scuffed oxfords. Annoying how he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he smiles cheekily, leaning back on his rickety throne as if to take more in of the sight before him, wrists and ankles bound. 

“Shut up.” Alec orders, dragging a chair and dropping to a spot right in front of his hostage, “I decide when you speak.”

“Anything for you, darling.” He says smoothly through a bruised lip, and the words itself earns him another punch across the face. He laughs, hair strewn, and spits blood onto the glass-littered marbled floor. 

“What’s your real name?” Alec asks as he settles his chair, “You are clearly not Brandon Han, and you are clearly not a wall street banker.”

“Magnus Bane. Pleasure to meet you.” Magnus says, tongue swiping downwards to rid himself of the trail of blood dripping down his lip, and Alec is not going to pretend it doesn’t make him feel things. “I’m sure you won’t be returning the favor of introducing yourself.”

“You have common sense, at least.” Alec answers menacingly, “Who do you work for? Hedgman? Lumumba? Or are you self employed?”

“Retired.” Magnus winks, and Alec swears to god he knows something he doesn’t. Magnus sighs, leaning back, “And I was happily retired, fronting as a foolish wall street banker, living an _honest_ life.”

He angles his head slightly to the side, squinting curiously. “Until a firm sends one of their fresh, beautiful faces to shake up my nest.”

Magnus continues, stretching his words slowly, “Working on false intel.”

Something stirs in Alec’s chest, and it mingles with the ache that echoes from Magnus’ body slam. 

Magnus shrugs, “Bugged from head to toe.” He says, eyes following the trail of his last three words. “That was why you had to strip off your clothes, right? To check?” 

He chuckles. “A couple of hours early, but a great Christmas gift, nonetheless.”

Alec rolls his eyes, yet _again_ , and this time shoots an inch from Magnus’ ear. The bullet shatters a vase instead. Still, a picture of relaxed temperament. What a _fucker._

“Does flirting ever work as an escape plan?” Alec asks, and Magnus grins. 

“Darling, I only flirt with people I like.” He says in a languid drawl, “And because I like you so much, Alexander Lightwood, I’ll tell you this.”

A boulder drops into the pit of Alec’s stomach at the mention of his name, his real name, through the mouth of the operative he was supposed to terminate. It makes him smoothly get up on his feet, gun aimed right at Magnus Bane’s forehead, barrel touching his skull’s frontal bone, a kill shot. 

“You do not know the people you have chosen to work for.” He says, the flirtations dissipating into thin air, making way for vitriol in his words that are said under his breath, an undercurrent, “You have been made an offering, an easy kill, a love letter to an assassin who’s being wooed by someone who has been for a long time a mere annoyance. But now?” 

Magnus just about hisses, “I’m fucking _pissed_.”

He leans forward, forehead pushing threateningly against Alec’s gun, eyes glinting in anger. “I’ve had enough of these silly games.” He seethes, every word punctuated with some kind of madness, “And I am tired of killing every little errand boy sent to me by a woman who doesn’t understand the word no.”

“Funny how a little errand boy bested you in combat and has you bound to a chair.” Alec snarls, and Magnus actually laughs. 

He lifts the chair off the ground, and when it makes contact onto the floor it buckles underneath him and collapses into pieces. He rises to his feet, free, tossing the arms and legs that were once bound to his limbs, the zip ties mere accessories dangling from his wrists and ankles. 

“I learned after the fifth assassin,” Magnus says, hand gesticulating, “That my furniture needs to reflect my ongoing needs.”

Alec follows him with his gun, aim true. 

“Did you really think I don’t know how to finish off a proper choke hold?” Magnus asks, unknotting the blindfold that seem to be tied over Alec's eyes unbeknownst to him, “Did you really think I would incapacitate you rather than shoot you at point blank range if my goal was to put you to the ground?”

Magnus questioningly peers into Alec’s eyes. “Do you think I would have let you even cross the foyer of my apartment, if I truly wanted you dead?”

“Then what do you want from me?” Alec grits.

They hear footsteps, or whispers of footsteps, ones that are carefully deposited onto the floor. There are signs and symptoms of stealthy movements, small clicks of guns being adjusted within tight grips, the brush of tactical gear against fabric. 

“I’m going to kill Camille Belcourt. And every single member of her firm until everything she owns is rubble on the ground." Magnus says under his breath, wary of spying ears, "You can pass onto her that message." Alec's mind swirls with information, of the many different things that he's observed for the past year that seemed unusual enough to pique his interest, and how it seems to slot with the ones presented to him by Magnus on a silver platter. Missing operatives. Dealings with firms that they once used to compete with in terms of clientele. Off shore accounts popping up in the most unusual of places. 

“Or," Magnus says, bringing Alec back, "Help me take her down.”

The door to Magnus’ apartment bursts open, and back up fills the living room like floodgates being opened. They form a wall of ammunition from behind, and it makes the hair on Alec’s neck prickle in apprehension, as if one of the bullets they have stored in their magazines have his own name etched upon it. A steady ache builds in his gut, and it offers to him an intuition. Alec presses his lips together, brow furrowed, gun still pointed at Magnus who has settled in his spot upon the home invasion. 

“You have a decision to make.” Magnus says quietly, and it makes Alec grip his gun even tighter, unmoving.

“Will not ask again.”

Raj barks an order from his left. 

“Take the shot, Alec.”

Alec breathes steadily, and even in times like this, feels irritation at that stupid voice. He rolls his eyes a third time today. He looks at Raj. 

“You are so fucking annoying.” 

He shoots him at point blank range.

Alec moves even before Raj hits the ground and runs for cover, grabbing Magnus along with him and jumping behind the overturned velvet sofa. A barrage of bullets rains down upon them and Alec winces at a piece of wood flying into his face. He crumples himself even small behind the couch and he quickly hands Magnus another Beretta and a couple of magazines slotted within his boot.

“You must be something else if Belcourt either wants you for herself or wants you dead.” Alec grunts, checking his own magazine and clicking a new one in place. “Show me what you got, old timer.”

Magnus looks at him dead in the eyes, smirking. “I’m not sure you can handle what I got, new blood.” 

They give it a second—and then they start. 

“Not bad.” Alec pants, blood spattered across his forehead.

Magnus peels off a thoroughly ripped suit jacket. “Likewise.”

They look around, the once pristine penthouse overlooking New York’s financial district reduced to rubble. Magnus looks at his home in superficial sorrow, a hand on the heart for the expensive, one-of-a-kind paintings that now has no value now that it’s been the catch all of fifty bullet holes. But then again New York socialites are fucking _idiots_. Maybe they’ll think it’s a Banksy.

“We should get going.” Alec says, “We’ve been here too long.”

Magnus holds a finger up, gaze directed onto the clock that is still miraculously standing after the hurricane of bullets that whipped upon the entire apartment. Alec frowns, looks up as well and just as he does the clock strikes twelve, bells chiming softly. 

Magnus smiles at Alec. “Merry Christmas, Alexander.”

Alec can’t help but laugh. _Jesus._

“Merry Christmas.”

Alec wakes up to the feeling of snow. 

When he blearily opens his eyes there’s a small cloud floating above him, sprinkling snowflakes on his nose. He chuckles, fingers rubbing the sleep out of his lashes. He need only look beside him to see Magnus beaming at him, chin propped on his shoulder.

“Good morning, love.” Magnus happily says, and Alexander feels the warmth of the words settle deep into his chest. 

“’Mornin’.” Alec unwittingly mumbles, throat still hoarse with sleep. He contentedly leans down and meets his husband’s already pouted lips for a kiss, then blinks up at the little storm cloud swirling above him. “This is new.”

“There’s a movie Madzie has been raving on about, where an ice princess makes a snow cloud for a snowman so it won’t melt.” Magnus answers, flipping onto his back and stretching his arms as far as they can go, “I don’t want my snowman melting.” He grins as he swings his legs off the side of the bed.

Alec looks at Magnus, fake offended. “So I’m the cold one in this marriage? Me? When I ask to be cuddled all the time?”

“That only proves my point.” Magnus says, slipping on his silk pajamas and poking his arms through his robe, “Coldies always want cuddles. It’s their defining quality.”

Alec rolls his eyes fondly, getting out of bed himself. “I can’t believe Fray planned a three-part event for Christmas day.” He says, voice muffled momentarily as his head passes through his shirt, “And all mundane stuff?”

“It’s going to be fun, Alexander.” Magnus says soothingly, “Ice skating, a snowball fight in Central Park, and a Christmas ball in the New York Institute? Sounds like a nice way to spend Christmas day.”

Alec looks at Magnus like he’s a bit deluded. “Have you skated before?”

Magnus purses his lips in thought. “No, but I love parties and I’m a good shot, so I’m two for three.” He grins, “What ever I will lack on skating, I will make up for with confidence.”

Alec disappears through the bathroom door, his voice mingling with the sound of water hitting the sink. “The last time I danced is during our wedding, and god knows you still have the scuffed shoes as proof of my skills.”

“How about a bit of practice?” Alec hears from the living room, and when he steps out of the bathroom with a washed face and brushed teeth, a slow, old-time, big band song sways in the air, hanging soft notes of piano and trumpets in the atmosphere. 

Alec walks barefooted into the living room where a vinyl player is spinning a record, one of Magnus’ many mundane treasures. He sees his husband standing there with a smile on his lips, equally barefooted on the ornately patterned rug they’ve brought home from a souk in Tangier. He awaits him the same way he awaited him in the middle of the dance floor of their wedding, almost a year ago now, a hand outstretched. 

Alec warmly smiles, and he knows despite his two left feet, despite the many times he will lose his footing and sway the wrong way, he will always dance with Magnus. He will look a fool for Magnus. He loves him that much.

Alec’s hand meets Magnus’ and they draw to each other automatically like a moth to flame. Magnus curls into the circle of his arms, head tucked under Alec’s chin, temple pressed against the spot on his neck where his deflect rune sits. Alec presses their joined hands between their chests as Magnus circles his arm around Alec’s back, and then they sway. Feet brushing against carpet threads, fingers grasped together, eyes fluttered close.

There are many conversations that needs to be had in the future, ones that involve turning fifty years together to sixty, sixty to seventy, seventy to eternity. It’s a conversation Alec has had with himself many, many times, but not yet with the man he loves. Sometimes doubt inches its way into what he has thought is a firm resolve. But what brings Alec back towards sureness is somewhat of an odd thought. 

Sometimes Alec wonders if there’s universes out there where he doesn’t have all _this_ , an Alec without a Magnus held close against his chest, and it truly makes his heart ache in a way he doesn’t quite get. It makes him draw his husband even nearer, as if just thinking about losing Magnus barrels him towards a reality where that is the truth. It’s what moves him closer and closer to certainty of the future he wants. 

He’s not quite there yet.

But he will be.

For now, he dances with the man he loves.

“Merry Christmas, Magnus.” A shadow hunter says to a warlock.

_(A hockey player says to a physics major._

_A prince says to a servant._

_An assassin says to another assassin.)_

Alec feels a smile against his shirt.

“Merry Christmas, Alexander.”


End file.
